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manent merry-go-round of poo clearance - frankly, I'd assumed that it had now reached fetish
status and that really she secretly enjoyed the whole thing. There are the cat-litter trays, the
chicken coop has to be scraped clean, Thérence's nappy has to be changed almost hourly as
teething takes its toll on his bowel movements, the horse's field has to be stripped of manure
every day and said manure piled up to form a steaming ziggurat in the corner of the field and
then there's the fun, twenty-firstcentury parlour game - 'Hunt the Doggy-Doo'. It's all right
and proper that dog mess be cleared up, especially when you have three kids running around,
I have no argument with that; it's the logistics that we need to work on. We have two and a
half acres and dogs, as far as 'evacuation' goes, aren't creatures of habit.
So, for a couple of hours every afternoon, I'd snap on the rubber gloves and just hunt and
collect animal mess. I am not a man of compromise, and despite the filthiness of the job, the
constant attention of following animals and millions and millions of flies, I decided that the
only way I could maintain any kind of dignity was to don full mod regalia. White loafers may
not have been the most practical footwear for the work, nor Sta-Prest trousers and a button-
down collared paisley shirt, but there was simply no other way I could do it. There is little
enough dignity involved as it is in excrement-gathering without dressing like a peasant. Inad-
vertently, this also provided entertainment for the local farmers who would stop their tractors
and spend a few minutes staring at the mod in the field, like I was some kind of sartorial
mirage.
I can't say it was all sweetness and light with the boys, either; it was full on and exhausting.
I'd had this farcical notion that while Natalie was away I'd be able to get the boys to bed early
enough to actually do some work in the evening. Fat chance! I got them to bed early, that
was no problem, and although allowing them to watch a film in bed every night may not be
everyone's idea of brilliant parenting, film can be educational - Alvin and The Chipmunks
2: Le Squeequel, for instance, is a metaphor for life. But by the time they were in bed I was
knackered, my mind a mush of kids' needs, ironing, washing, shopping and animal droppings.
By the end of the week I was exhausted, far more tired than if I'd spent a week touring. But,
and despite the bad portents at the start, all the animals were safe and well(ish), the boys were
happy, clean and in one piece, the house spotless and the property, as far as I could see, en-
tirely poo-free.
I languidly reflected on this on my last night as I sat on the terrace eating noix de Saint-
Jacques cooked with chorizo and lemon juice, while sipping a chilled, crisp glass of Entre-
Deux-Mers. The valley leading down to the river Cher was completely silent; it was a warm
evening and even the crickets had turned the volume down, but just at that point as night fell
and the bats began to swoop, it was incredibly still and peaceful. There wasn't a breath of
wind and there was total silence as I lay back in my chair and closed my eyes, exhausted by
the week but smugly satisfied, and then it began.
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